


a moment in time and forever

by keyhun



Category: DBSK | Tohoshinki | TVfXQ | TVXQ
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-26
Updated: 2016-01-26
Packaged: 2018-05-16 08:30:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5821444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyhun/pseuds/keyhun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the year 2236, physical books are no longer around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a moment in time and forever

In the year 2236, physical documents have been phased out and replaced by tablets which can be signed with styluses. Contracts, though no longer made of white paper, are signed on super-computers that can detect any forgery and cannot be shredded. Birth certificates, wills and last testaments, and all memoirs are created using a high-scale, state of the art computer application that matches the formality and gravity of the situation. Live music had become a thing of the past, too, what with supremely advanced technology used to create sounds nearly perfectly identical to the instruments of the past. Who had time or the will to spend months and years becoming a master of the violin when with the press of a button an identical sound could be produced?

In the year 2236, physical books are no longer around.

Children in nurseries and daycares and even in household bedrooms are read to not from storybooks, but from computer screens. Or tablets. Or phones, depending on how good the parents’ vision is. And depending on if the parent is even around, otherwise a robot will just read to them. Libraries still exist, but instead of daunting, endless rows of shelves of books, there are a few master computers on each floor that could tell you how to access whatever book, genre, author, or year of publication through the library’s database that you could access from your personal tablet on the library network.

It’s not to say that books are no longer allowed, because they most certainly are, but no one of Changmin’s generation has seen one their whole life. The entire human population lost the need for them when technology and mankind became inseparable, when humans could no longer perform daily tasks without the assistance of computers.

Changmin and all his friends have heard of books, of course, from their old history lessons back in the third grade. Since then, though, there hasn’t been much mention of them, nor has anyone really cared to learn more. What is there to know when every book was available on Changmin’s personal tablet?

But Changmin knows he’s always been just a little different. He’d always thought he was satisfied with how things were—why wouldn’t he be? Everything ran smoothly, everything happened on time and in place. Nothing was messy. And yet, something in the back of Changmin’s brain itched whenever he settled down in a large, comfortable chair with a cup of coffee and a nice, classic…digital book. He sighed, turned off his tablet, and grabbed his coat. He needed to go for a walk.

He roamed the grey streets and listened to the click-clack of his slightly heeled boots. The cool air did little to alleviate the swarming thoughts in his mind. Maybe another hour would do the trick. He just really had to get away from all the—

 _Mom is calling. Mom is calling. Mom is calling._ Changmin squeezed his eyes shut and then tapped his watch to answer the call. A holograph of his mother appeared and she had her hands on her hips, a cross expression on her face. 

“Changmin, where are you? The sun will go down soon.”

“Hi mom, sorry, I just wanted to go for a walk.”

Her expression softens at the innocent response.

“Oh, well, that’s okay I suppose. Sorry for assuming you were doing something you aren’t supposed to, I know you’re a good kid.”

Changmin laughs. “It’s okay, mom.”

“Don’t walk around too late, okay? I’m making dinner tonight.”

Changmin’s eyes widened and his mouth watered almost immediately. Mom rarely ever cooked food herself anymore—she was usually busy with her job so their robot chef would just just put something together. One robot chef was given to each household by the government if you had two or more children as a way to encourage the populous to have kids, because not many people really felt like having children in the past few decades. The birth rate had started to tumble and there weren’t enough people filling jobs to create, design, and produce more technology, so the robots came along. Almost all café’s, bakeries, and restaurants had robot chefs too—albeit more advanced than household ones. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be home soon.”

The call ends and Changmin silences his phone-watch, then turns it off and shoves it deep into his pocket.

He wanders for what feels like hours. He passes neighborhood parks (with no children in them), public swimming pools (those are empty, too, and not just because of the cool weather) and the occasional suburban coffee shop or convenience store (empty, empty, where did everyone go?).

Changmin’s legs begin to tire and he thinks he’ll sit on the sidewalk for a few minutes before heading home when he hears something. Music. But it isn’t music that he’s used too—it’s not computer-produced guitar or drums. It’s not synth, it’s not electronic. It feels, somehow, warmer. Changmin doesn’t know how to describe it but if he had to use words he might say it’s easy, it’s smooth, it sounded so _real_.

He turns in the direction of the music and follows it. He feels his legs carrying him toward it like a magnet and he can’t really stop himself. He doesn’t want to stop himself. He wants to find the source of it and listen for hours.

Then he realizes the sun is hanging dangerously low on the horizon and he needs to get home quickly.

He fishes out his phone-watch from his pocket and marks his location, making a mental note to return the next time he’s free, then heads home as the sky dims to dusk.

 

 

 

“The next time he’s free” doesn’t come until nearly one month later and his exams are over. Exams are no longer taken on paper but on computers that have heat-sensitive technology which can detect if a student is attempting to cheat. Changmin is an honest student so he’s never had a problem with them, but staring at a screen for eight hours straight for his modern medicine exam did give him a headache.

After he’s home he takes out his phone-watch and scrolls through a month of history before he finds the location he’s looking for, then heads out.

As he approaches he wonders if he’s going in the right direction because he can’t remember the scenery much. He’s about to turn around and go the other way but then he hears it again—that faint, glorious sound. Warm and soft and pure. He floats toward it, feet light on the ground and head nearing the clouds.

He walks up to a nondescript, one story building fashioned similar to a rustic house. It’s made of reddish-brown brick and the door is brown wood. Changmin gawks in awe for a moment because he doesn’t think he’s ever seen anything like this—all the buildings he’s been exposed to in his life are white and grey and clear glass. This place feels so warm, like it’s waiting with open arms in an invitation for embrace.

He knocks hesitantly and the music stops. 

The door swings open and Changmin is greeted by a man he’s never seen before.

“Hello,” he says, voice deep and calm.

“Uh—um—hi?” Changmin manages.

“Would you like to come in?” 

Changmin is pretty sure he’s been told not to accept invitations from strangers but that knowledge seems unimportant at the moment. He nods and steps inside and is shocked by what he sees.

Books. 

Shelves of books.

Rows of shelves of books.

Tens of, hundreds of, thousands of books.

And in the center of the large room, a sleek black grand piano.

For a moment, Changmin feels a bit light-headed. His brain seems to be having a bit of trouble processing the objects he’s seeing because he’s never seen them in all his twenty years of living.

“Are you shocked?” the man asks him.

“A little.”

“I suppose you would be. Books aren’t around much anymore. Neither are pianos”

“How—why—where did all these come from?” Changmin stutters.

The man laughs softly. “These books are some of the last on earth. They’ve been passed down through my family for several generations. When printed books began to become a dying art, my great-great-great-grandparents began collecting them. Every generation after them has protected the ones they collected and searched the world for more, adding to the collection.”

“So how many do you have in here?”

“About 25,000. It’s only a fraction of the full collection, though.”

Changmin’s mouth felt dry. “And where are the rest?”

The man raises an eyebrow. “You’re curious, aren’t you? But I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. It’s something only people in the family can know.”

“What family are you from? Um—I mean, what’s your name? I’m Shim Changmin by the way” Changmin asks, slightly embarrassed.

But the man doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles and answers. “I’m Yoochun. Park Yoochun.”

 

 

Eventually they settle into the large, comfortable chairs in the corner of the room with a view of most of the shelves and that dazzling musical instrument. Yoochun goes to the back and comes back with two mugs (chipped and old and perfect) of coffee. Changmin takes a sip and it’s sweeter than what he usually drinks but he doesn’t mind at all because it tastes so rich. 

“Like it?” Yoochun asks.

“Yeah, I love it. How’d you make this?”

“Slowly and with love.”

Changmin rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever, I mean like how did you actually make it?”

“I made it myself and not using a robot if that’s what you’re asking.”

“You know how to make stuff…?” Changmin wonders aloud. He’d never learned how to make anything himself. There were always robots to do that for him. And his mom.

“Yeah, well, when you’ve renounced robots and live alone, you pick up some skills.”

Changmin’s head spins with the load of information. Someone living in 2236, in Seoul, South Korea had renounced robots? It just didn’t make sense. Changmin didn’t even know life without robots was possible anymore.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. It sounds crazy. But come on, let’s pick some books to read.” Yoochun says and gets up, motioning for Changmin to follow.

They wander up and down the rows of shelves, Yoochun occasionally stopping at one spot to examine a book, stroke its spine (almost lovingly) and then shake his head and moving on. 

Changmin’s eyes linger on every single book. Some appear to have hard covers, others are just paper. Some look positively ancient and dilapidated while others appear newer. And the languages—there are so many languages. Some Changmin knows well. Every citizen of South Korea is fluent in English and Chinese in the year 2366, but Changmin recognizes some that he definitely does not know how to read. Japanese, Arabic, Spanish. And even more languages that Changmin can’t even name.

Yoochun stops at the end of one shelf and leans down. 

“Ah,” he sighs, “this is an old favorite of mine. Here, take it,” he says, and holds a book out to Changmin.

Changmin stares at it blankly for a moment before Yoochun motions for him to take it again. Changmin reaches out and takes the object in his hand.

It’s old, he can feel that much from its rough paper cover. The next thing he notices is the thickness of it. It’s not nearly as thick as some of the other books on the shelves but it’s thicker than any tablet he’s ever held. But its weight is still light in Changmin’s hands because it’s only made of paper. Finally, Changmin notices that the book’s title is written in English. 

Yoochun picks up another book, one with a hardcover, and it appears to be written in a language that looks like English but isn’t, quite. Maybe it’s German?

Yoochun leads Changmin back to the chairs with a hand on a small of Changmin’s back. It sends shivers up his spine but he says nothing.

They sit down and Yoochun begins reading in silence. Changmin observes him for a while before looking at the book in his hands and opening it to the first page. 

_All the King’s Men_

_by Robert Penn Warren_

_Chapter One_

 

 

 

“Hey, Changmin, I think you should get going now.”

Changmin stirs awake and is greeted by Yoochun looking down at him from behind his thick-rimmed glasses. 

“Huh?” he mumbles.

Yoochun chuckles. “You fell asleep reading, though I see you already got quite far. How are you liking it?”

Changmin sits straight up in his chair and catches the book as it falls off his chest. It falls into his hands, open to page 100.

“Um…it’s really good. I like it a lot. Thanks for letting me read it.”

“Of course. Come back any time if you want to read more. I’m afraid I can’t let you take it out of this building.”

“O-oh…of course, um, then I’ll just go put this back then.”

“It’s fine, I’ll get it,” Yoochun says, grinning.

“Okay then. Uh, before I head out, can I ask what you were reading?”

Yoochun replies as he walks back toward the shelf to put away Changmin’s book. “Yeah, it’s a collection of short stories by an author named Franz Kafka. Ever heard of him?”

Changmin’s eyebrows pull together in concentration, trying to recall if he had. “I’m not sure…is he good?”

A sigh. “He’s incredible, Changmin,” Yoochun says, voice suddenly filled with sadness. “And it makes me sad that people don’t know him anymore. The books written about a strange, dystopian future always predicted that it would be the government’s fault that books were no longer in circulation. Instead, it’s the people’s fault. The people who simply lost interest and nothing could be done to stop the inevitable process.”

Changmin doesn’t know how to respond. So he tells Yoochun good night and that he’ll just be leaving now.

At the door, Yoochun catches his wrist. “Wait,” he blurts, “you’ll come back and read with me again, won’t you?”

Changmin’s eyes flit to the piano. Its sleek black top and broad keys entice him and beckon him to play it.

“Yeah, I will. Would you…maybe…let me listen to you play next time?”

Yoochun lets go of Changmin’s wrist and nods. “Sure.”

“Okay. Good night, Yoochun.”

“Good night, Changmin. Sweet dreams.”

 

 

 

Changmin returns one week later, missing the feel of a paperback book in his hands. Missing the feel of its weight on his chest as he snoozed in Yoochun’s chair, warmth of the coffee seeping through his skin. He has to know what will happen next in the book—will Willie Stark walk further down the path of corruption in order to reach his goal of presidency or will he return to his original idealistic values? Will Jack and Anne fall in love once more or will they let politics keep them apart—so close yet so far apart. Will Anne’s brother turn out to be as perfect as he seems or will he do something unimaginable? 

He knocks on the door and Yoochun opens three, four heartbeats later. He greets Changmin with a smile and a hug. Changmin wants to melt into the physical contact that is so, so rare these days but reminds himself that he and Yoochun have not known each other long at all so he pulls back quickly and returns the polite smile.

Yoochun guides him to the shelf with Changmin’s book on it and hands it to him, then grabs another one for himself. This time it’s in Japanese. 

Yoochun makes two steaming cups of hot chocolate (milky, chocolatey, sweet and so perfect it hurts) and Changmin thanks him. They settle in and Changmin, for just a moment, for just a few hours, forgets his personal tablet that keeps track of his whole life. He forgets his robot chef and robot housemaid that cooks and cleans for him. He forgets his phone-watch that has all the messages and notifications about the whereabouts of his family and friends and for those few hours on that chilly autumn evening, it is just him, Yoochun, two books, and two mugs of hot chocolate. And it’s the warmest Changmin has ever felt.

 

 

After two hours of reading, Changmin’s eyes are tired and his brain is whirring trying to comprehend how this book managed to create a plotline that seems intense yet slow and gradually-building all at the same time. He carefully places a bookmark in between the pages (Yoochun had given it to him, it had a fun little tassle at the end made of colorful threads) to mark where he left off and closes the book. 

“Had enough for today?” Yoochun asks, voice deep and calm as always.

“I think so. It’s so good. I really hate seeing Willie change like this. And the worst part is he doesn’t even realize it’s happening to him. Or maybe he does, I don’t know, but even if he does he pretends to not and that’s somehow worse.”

Yoochun sets down his own book and leans toward Changmin, chin resting on his palm. “Tell me more. What else do you like about it?”

“The narrator, Jack—god I just feel so many things about him. He’s the narrator of a story that isn’t his, but yet it is his story. And his relationship with the Stantons, it’s so terribly ordinary and yet so tragic. It just makes me wonder why friends drift apart. Why do they have to?” Changmin rambles.

“I know, it’s sad. But don’t you think there’s hope? For him and Anne?”

“I’m not sure. She seems hell bent on never loving him.”

“What if she loves him anyways?” Yoochun whispers.

Changmin catches his breath. “Well that would be…interesting.”

A beat of silence, and then “I seem to remember having promised to play a song on the piano for you.”

Changmin snaps back into focus and nods. “Yeah, that would be great. Do…do you really know how to play?”

Yoochun grins and walks to the piano and strokes the cover. “Of course I do…she’s the only one who understands me sometimes.”

Changmin has no idea what that means but then Yoochun starts playing. He closes his eyes and leans over the instrument. His fingers linger and then fly and jump between keys, scaling ten or twenty in under a second. He produces a tune that Changmin has never heard before. Something original. Something from his soul. Changmin wonders how he can feel the emotions of the music without words. It’s nothing like reading a book—there’s nothing to be told or read. Only a heart to be felt.

And then it’s over. 

Changmin has to bite his tongue to keep himself from whining for more because he enjoyed it that much.

“That was incredible,” is what he settles for instead.

“Thank you.”

“How did you learn how to play? How long have you been playing?” Changmin wonders aloud, curiosity getting the best of him.

Yoochun doesn’t seem to mind. He only chuckles and closes the piano cover.

“I’ve been learning for as long as I can remember, and I still haven’t unlocked her full potential yet, I don’t think. I still have much to learn.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone play an instrument live before. Definitely not in front of my own two eyes. Thank you for that. I really enjoyed it.”

“You’re very welcome. I like playing. Sometimes I feel like it’s the only way I can express myself.”

Changmin bites his lip. Was that song an expression of Yoochun’s thoughts? But it was so complicated. There were happy and sad parts and fast and slow parts all woven together to create one beautiful piece.

“Would you…like to learn?”

Changmin’s eyes go wide. “Seriously? You’d teach me?”

“Y-yeah. I would. If you want to learn,” Yoochun says hesitantly.

“I’ve never even thought about it…no one I know has ever played an instrument. Except, now, you…”

“So, do you want to?”

Changmin grins widely. “Yes please.”

 

 

 

Eventually they fall into a routine. Once a week, Changmin comes over to Yoochun’s place (house? bookstore? library? ancient artifact lost in time?) and bounces up and down on his heels in anticipation for his lesson but Yoochun will chide him and say they should read for a while first.

Changmin’s reading pace becomes faster and faster and he devours books. He wonders why he never found reading from his tablet this much fun—maybe it had something to do with how he’d always get distracted by games and messages, or maybe it’s just that being around Yoochun is calming and he makes damned good hot chocolate.

Changmin learns about the great American authors and falls in love with their harshly realistic views of the world. He feels his heart twist at their pained descriptions of the innocence of children and their subtle revelations of how war experiences ruined any semblance of innocence for them. Then he reads books and poems by the Europeans and falls in love with their flowery words woven together to create dream-like reads. He is fascinated by the British era of hedonism and how beauty and lust intertwined to create a sinful picture of cherry-red lips bruised from kisses and lovely brown pupils dilated wide from drug use—and all for the sake of pleasure. He goes back, so far back in time when he reads the works of Greek philosophers and wonders how it can be possible that the world has changed so little in thousands of years. 

He becomes a voracious reader of Yoochun’s collection of Eastern literature as well. He marvels at the work of the Middle Eastern mystics and their loving description of life and the universe. He finds himself in awe of the Chinese poets’ delicate descriptions of the natural elements and the unimportance of humans in the grandeur of nature. And he pores over the pages of the Tale of Genji, the very first novel, written by a woman in a time where women were worth next to nothing. 

He travels back and forth through time and listens to Yoochun play piano pieces from ages past and watches as he creates pieces from the depths of his own soul.

He learns bits and pieces. Here and there he picks up a chord, a strand, a movement and a melody. Slowly but surely, he is learning something no one in this city, in this country, has learned for generations. Except Yoochun.

“What if people forget?” Changmin asks one day, hanging on to every chord Yoochun strikes over white and black keys.

“Then much will be lost,” he replies.

“I don’t want the world to forget. I want everyone to hear you play. It’s so beautiful,” Changmin whispers, allowing himself to lean into Yoochun’s side on the piano bench.

Yoochun stills and grips Changmin’s hand.

“I don’t want it to be forgotten, either. But the world will always change. Nothing can ever stay the same. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing good, nothing bad.”

 _But I want this to last forever_ Changmin thinks, and he grips Yoochun’s hand just a bit tighter.

After several weeks, when Changmin plays a simple, one-handed version of Pachelbel’s _Canon_ with no mistakes, Yoochun kisses him for the first time.

Changmin responds with one hand tangled in Yoochun’s hair, the other fisting his fuzzy sweater. Yoochun presses his lips against Changmin’s again and again, and then once more after that. They pull apart for a moment and Changmin gently removes Yoochun’s glasses. 

“Kiss me,” he gasps, and Yoochun complies.

All the words fall apart behind Changmin’s shut eyelids and he doesn’t know how to describe this feeling. Nothing in the books told him about this—they hinted, they foreshadowed, they spoke in riddles and obscure adjectives about this. But nothing could prepare him for the wrenching in his gut, the twisting of his heart and the fire in his every nerve. Nothing could describe how he felt when Yoochun licked between Changmin’s lips in a question for entry and nothing could describe Changmin’s willingness to allow it. Every word was an understatement. Every feeling was bursting through his skull walls and skin.

“Changmin-ah,” Yoochun moans into their kiss.

“Yoochun,” Changmin says back, because no words will mean anything anymore. They’re all useless.

Yoochun breathes through his nose as he licks into Changmin’s mouth, warm and wet and still tasting of chocolate. 

Maybe there was one word Changmin could think of to describe it.

 _Love_.

 

 

 

Weeks turn into months, and months turn into nearly a full year. Little by little, Yoochun revelas parts of himself to Changmin. He tells him about his dreams of performing piano in a large concert hall, dressed in a tuxedo and having the audience fall in love with him. He tells Changmin about his father who traveled to India in search of classic religious texts from millennia ago and his mother who traveled to France to find diaries of people who lived during the time of the first French revolution. How his whole family would sometimes sit together and show each other their favorite book of the month and discuss other things they wanted to find. Changmin would hang onto every word, fascinated. 

 

 

Changmin’s parents often wonder where he goes and he tells them honestly, “I’m seeing my boyfriend.”

What they don’t know is that his boyfriend has a collection of something as outdated as books. That his boyfriend goes against every modern invention in favor of relics from the past and a world of things that no longer need to exist.

“We’d like to meet him, Changmin,” his mother says, and Changmin can think of no reason to protest. And yet there is a nagging warning in the back of his mind that this can’t end well—not when his mother is an engineer who creates robots that clean neighborhoods and his boyfriend is a man who hates modern technology.

But he can’t say no to his mother so he invites Yoochun over one night as they’re cuddling on the loveseat, blanket drawn around their shoulders. 

“I don’t know, Changmin…”

“Please? I don’t think we can put this off much longer.”

Yoochun kisses along Changmin’s jaw and the younger boy shivers. 

“I like what we have now…just the two of us…no one else involved. I like having you all to myself.”

Changmin shudders as Yoochun’s lips move down to Changmin’s neck, working against his pulse and under his jaw. 

“I-I’m always yours but p-please,” he gasps, focus dwindling with each passing moment.

Yoochun hums in his throat and finds the hem of Changmin’s sweater under their blanket, fingers reaching under it and touching the soft skin of Changmin’s stomach.

“Aah—Yoochun…”

“Fine, I’ll meet your family. They’re going to hate me and tell you to never see me again but I’ll meet them because I love you and I want you to be happy with me.”

Changmin wraps his arms around Yoochun’s shoulders and squeezes. “They won’t do that. Hopefully.”

After that, Yoochun gathers Changmin in his arms and carries him to the bedroom behind the bookroom. Changmin has only seen the bedroom a few times but it’s so different from anything he’s seen before. The floors are made of warm brown wood. There’s no white, no grey, no black. No buttons on walls and no robots cleaning. All the furniture is mahogany or cherry and there are rugs of red and gold across the floor. There are lamps in the corners, their shades embroidered with intricate and abstract patters that are vaguely floral. The bed lies against the wall with the wide window, blanketed in deep red and gold. Yoochun lowers Changmin onto it.

And he writes beautiful words on the empty pages of Changmin’s skin.

 

 

 

The first dinner with the family is awkward. Yoochun knows he’s treading on thin ice in this household. He knows he doesn’t belong in this place where everything is done by a robot, where there are no books or pianos or even any curiosity. His only comfort is Changmin, who sits by his side, tall and handsome like a prince out of the books Yoochun hasn’t touched since he was maybe eight years old. Changmin seems at ease—of course he should, it’s his house—so it allows Yoochun to think maybe he can calm down too.

“So, Yoochun,” Mrs. Shim begins, “what do you do for a living?”

Yoochun wants to lie and say something that’ll impress her but he figures that would disappoint Changmin and he doesn’t really want that so he decides to be honest.

“I collect books. To earn an income I write music and sell it anonymously online. There are people in corners of the world who are willing to pay a lot of money for original compositions these days.”

Mrs. Shim stills. A cross expression flashes across her face for a moment but she controls it. 

“I see. How…quaint.”

Yoochun stays silent.

“Mom, uh—Yoochun plays piano really well. He’s really talented.”

“Oh, that’s nice. An outdated, unnecessary hobby perhaps. But it’s nice.”

“It’s what I love to do,” Yoochun replies, no bite in his words.

Mrs. Shim sets down her eating utensils. “What you love to do, huh,” he scoffs. “Well you know what I love to do, Mr. Park? I love to create mechanical beings that will better our society. That will keep our streets clean and provide safe environments for people in our city. I love doing something _useful_.”

“Mom!”

“No, Changmin, it’s okay. She’s right. What I do is no longer useful to a large amount of people. In the past, maybe, it was prized as an art, but not in this century.”

“Well I’m glad you seem to be smart enough to realize it.”

Yoochun bites his tongue.

“Mom, please. That’s rude.”

“Changmin, finish your food.”

“I don’t want this food! I don’t want any more food made by a robot, I like it when _you_ cook. And I like when Yoochun makes hot chocolate and when he bakes cupcakes for the two of us to share. I love him, mom, and I’d like it if you could hold back your opinions and try to be more accepting.”

“…”

“…”

“Finish your food, Changmin, and we’ll talk later.”

 

 

 

After dinner, Changmin walks Yoochun back to his place. They hold hands and traverse the empty roads in silence. 

When they arrive, Changmin stops at the door and Yoochun looks back at him, eyes full of sadness.

“Come inside?” he asks.

And then Changmin is on him like a glove, kissing him everywhere and telling him nothing matters because “I love you. You taught me how to _feel_.”

Their arms wind around each other as they tumble toward the bed. Changmin gets his fingers underneath the hem of Yoochun’s cashmere sweater and pushes it up. They break so he can pull it over Yoochun’s head and toss it on top of the piano.

By the time they get to the bed Yoochun is topless and the button and zipper of his pants are undone. Changmin kneels over him and takes in the sight of his body, flushed and chest heaving with anticipating breaths.

He leans down and takes Yoochun’s lips between his own once more, tasting them as delicately as he can.

Yoochun cups Changmin’s face in his hands and opens his mouth to let Changmin in and then he pulls away. Changmin moves down to Yoochun’s jaw, placing kisses all along the defined line.

“You know,” Yoochun pants, “I’m sure you read about it, but a love between us wouldn’t have been allowed in years past.”

Changmin hums to let him know he’s listening as continues to work his way down Yoochun’s neck.

“T-touching you like this,” he whispers, running a finger down Changmin’s chest, “could’ve gotten us killed.”

Changmin sucks angry red marks onto Yoochun’s neck, biting them until he knows they’ll show the next day and digs his fingernails into Yoochun’s biceps.

Yoochun places his hands firmly on Changmin’s hips. “Strip, Changmin-ah.”

His sweater comes off first. Then he makes a show of unbuttoning his shirt and extending a long, perfectly muscled arm and dropping it on the floor. He unbuckles his belt and slides it out of the loops and caresses the side of Yoochun’s face with it before it joins his rumpled shirt.

Yoochun runs his hand down Changmin’s chest and opens the button and zipper of Changmin’s pants. 

“Take them off,” he urges.

Changmin lies down on the bed next to Yoochun and pushes them down his hips and Yoochun gets to his knees to tug them off of Changmin’s ankles. Then Changmin is reaching into his underwear and pressing his head back against the pillow and it occurs to Yoochun that Changmin is touching himself.

“Changmin,” he croaks.

“Kiss me, now.”

Yoochun makes quick work of his pants and their boxers and then he’s on Changmin, kissing him and kissing him until they just can’t breathe any longer.

“More,” Changmin all but begs and who is Yoochun to deny him?

Yoochun thinks the lines between Changmin’s hard abdominal muscles are like the crevices between pages of books. He takes his time caressing each one lovingly and running his flattened tongue over them. 

“Ah— _please_ ,” the younger moans.

Yoochun urges him to turn over and he kisses down each disc of Changmin’s spine that are so like the plot twists of a riveting story—sharp and sudden and exciting.

He finds the twitching muscles of Changmin’s thighs to be like suspense.

The taste of Changmin’s skin to be like romance.

The feeling of pushing into Changmin and making him scream his name like the climax.

And the impossibly soft “I love you” pressed into his hair afterwards a perfect, fulfilling resolution.

 

 

 

“I want to help you find books,” Changmin whispers against Yoochun’s chest.

“You—what?”

“Isn’t that what your family has done for generations? Searching the world to find books.”

Yoochun holds Changmin close. “Yeah, it is.”

“I want to help.”

Yoochun pulls back and looks into Changmin’s eyes, strokes the side of his face with his thumb. 

“We’d have to leave Seoul. Your family is here, aren’t they?”

Changmin pouts. “Do you not…want me to come with you?”

“No, love, that’s not it,” he coos, pecking Changmin’s lips. “I’d want nothing more than to travel the world with you and look for stories of lands lost in time. But I couldn’t ask you to do that for me. To leave behind what you have here and spend years with me.”

“But…I want to. I want to do that. I want to spend years with you. I want to spend—” Changmin catches himself. Is it too early to say it?

“Tell me Changmin. Tell me what you want.” 

Changmin looks into his eyes and says, “I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I want to look for more stories with you. And maybe one day, somewhere, I’ll find the book with the words in them that can describe how much I love you.”

Yoochun kisses him briefly but with all the passion he has. Then he reaches over Changmin and opens a drawer in the nightstand. He pulls out a box.

“Do you remember I told you something a long time ago?” he asks, voice barely rising above a whisper.

“I told you only people in our family could have access to the full collection of books.” 

He opens the box and pulls out a ring. There’s no diamond, only a dull silver band encrusted with a single ruby.

“Will you become my family? Will you marry me, Changmin?”

Changmin allows the ring to be slipped onto his finger and says yes.

 

 

 

“You are not going with him, Changmin.”

“Mother, please, just listen—”

“No. This is ridiculous. I will not have you _eloping_ with some strange man who can’t adapt to modern life and going off on some journey to find more make believe nonsense.”

Anger boils in Changmin’s blood but he forces himself to stay calm. 

“Mother. This is what I want. It’s my life. I’m an adult now. I can do what I want to do but that doesn’t mean I don’t still want your blessing. It’s important to me that you accept us.”

His mother scoffs. “I have no problem with the two of you as a couple! I’ll even pay for the wedding. But going off on some dangerous journey to countries you’ve never been to? To find things that don’t matter anymore? What’s the use? What’s the _purpose_ of it, Changmin?”

“If I may, Mrs. Shim,” Yoochun speaks up, “the purpose is none too clear. But maybe one day it will be. Maybe one day technology will fail and these written records will be the only marks of our past. Our failures, our triumphs—our desires and goals as a human race. Maybe one day we’ll need them again.”

Mrs. Shim sits back against the chair and holds her head in her hand.

“Do whatever you want,” she grumbles, because she knows she has no power against someone this young, this foolish, and this tragically, beautifully caught up in his idealistic dreams. She doesn’t have to like it, though.

Changmin grins victoriously.

“Just come home for New Year’s, okay?” 

“I’ll bring him back safely,” Yoochun replies, smile stretching from ear to ear.

 

 

 

The night they get married Yoochun shows him the entire collection. A whole warehouse full of books. It’s overwhelmingly beautiful and Changmin finds himself tearing up—though that may also be because he’s _married_ now to the man he loves and he is so excited for their life ahead together.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Yoochun croons.

“I love you,” Changmin sniffles.

“And I, you.”

 

 

 

Over years and years they find things the world has not seen in centuries. Poems by minds enlightened to the truths of the wide cosmos, novels written from the bleeding hearts of men and women, and plays scripted by the brightest, wittiest minds of centuries past.

They devour stories and eras together, creating a picture of the lives of the people who lived long ago. 

Changmin never does find the book or the poem that has the words that can describe the ocean-like depth of his love for his husband.

But as they sit on the wooden walkway of their hostel in Japan and watch the snow fall and Yoochun keeps one arm around Changmin’s waist as they chat about their favorite recent findings, Changmin realizes that maybe he doesn’t need those words.

Maybe he just needs this moment as it is for all the long years to come.

**Author's Note:**

> hello, i've been posting on livejournal for a few years now but it seems like a large portion of readers are now on ao3. i stubbornly clung to lj for as long as i could but i do want what i write to reach a larger audience than it seems to be reaching now, so i decided to give in and start posting here. i think i'll only post the works i'm more proud of on ao3, but all my works will be available @ http://keyhun.livejournal.com/ :)


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